


Pansy, Peony, Yellow Poppy

by Kangoo



Series: April Bouquet [25]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Field Surgery, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, I don't know how graphic the violence is but i'm putting a warning just in case, Medical Procedures, The Red War (Destiny), Trench Warfare-adjacent, We've stepped into a war with the cabal on... Earth??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: In which the Traveler runs, and the Fallen come to humanity's help instead.
Relationships: Male Guardian & Mithrax (Destiny)
Series: April Bouquet [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685779
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41





	Pansy, Peony, Yellow Poppy

**Author's Note:**

> fuck it, three prompt fills in one because i'm TIRED, overworked, and also gotta go watch the new episodes of a tv show i like
> 
> (sorry)
> 
> themes: thoughtful/caring, bravery, success

**1.**

When the Red Legion invaded the City, its sight set on the Traveler and its Light, they fought back. They killed and they struggled and they died for the Light. In some timelines, they even won.

Not in this one.

Here, when the Traveler senses their approach through the fog of its comatose state, it makes a choice. Stay or run; hope the Guardians can save it or leave to give itself a chance to heal before the Darkness inevitably finds it again.

It chooses to run, gathers the last of its strength and flees the system, never to be seen again. And so when humanity stands against the Red Legion, it does so alone.

Because of course Ghaul doesn’t give up. One does not lead an undefeated legion by having _mercy._ When he finds the Traveler once again out of his reach, he turns his sight on the Light remaining in the Guardians instead. Bitter and angry from the unexpected failure, he swears to put an end to humanity as a whole.

But they’re not going down that easily.

This time they do not fight for the Light. They do not fight for the Traveler, threatened by Ghaul’s hunger for power and glory. Hopeless after the departure of their protector, abandoned by the Light, they fight because it’s the only thing left to do. Because it’s that or death and humanity has never been one to go gentle into that good night.

They’ve got to hope for victory and to hold on until then, because if they don’t they will have nothing left. And isn’t that the whole point of being a Guardian? Faith that they can make it through, with or without Light.

_Be brave, Guardian._

They’ll have to be.

The Vanguard does not run; without the immediate threat of the Traveler’s death — without the hope of its presence — they step up to their role and lead the survivors of the initial onslaught to the EDZ to regroup. Suraya Hawthorne offers them the Farm as a base of operation in exchange for a say in the way things are run.

Sam is there when it happens, standing at her side as something a little like a Guardian-civilians liaison. Despite that he’s not sure how they settle the debates on who should or shouldn’t lead the survivors in this conflict.

He thinks the Future War Cult bartered their resources in exchange for a place on the war council. From what he hears Dead Orbit is arguing for the merits of fleeing the system again and are supported by many Guardians disillusioned by the Traveler abandoning them. He keeps an eye on the proceedings in case they try to stage a coup, but apart from that he’s too busy to listen to politics that don’t involve him.

At first he works with the other doctors of the Farm, setting up a triage area for the wounded coming in every day. The first two weeks are a haze of blood and exhaustion, Guardians unused to mortality falling back on old habits and getting nearly killed. They lose more than they save.

One day he finds himself with his hands in the guts of one of his rookies. He kind of expected it to happen. He’s been training Kinderguardians for years, one of them was bound to find their way on his operation table eventually.

But when he thought about it he had hoped, perhaps selfishly that he’d find one of the older ones — a Guardian who had already earned their stripes. As if it would be any easier.

Instead, he gets one of the kids. He mentored her maybe two years ago, at most. And now here she is with shrapnel embedded in her stomach, and as he digs them out he can’t help but feel like it’s a failure on his part. As if maybe, if he’d trained her better — if her and her comrades had been more careful — she’d be alright.

He walks into the improvised war room, still covered in blood from the elbows down, and _demands_ of the Vanguard that they train their Guardians to fight like they could die at any time, because they _can_.

They agree, and put him in charge of it. No good deed goes unpunished indeed.

It’s the right call to make though. Because Sam has been ghostless for more than a decade and a mentor to Kinderguardians for nearly as long, he finds himself uniquely qualified to deal with the newly-mortal Guardians. He calls every surviving ghostless he knows, old friends and people he ran missions with back when Sasha was still alive. Devrim brings in active duty civilians as well, and together they create a training course focused on survival. On guerrilla warfare, long-distance, strategy. Guardians already used to these tactics, such as snipers and lone Hunters who specialize in dangerous long term missions, are put in charge of small groups of trainees in the field while the civilians and ghostless coordinate their efforts in some weird reversal of their usual roles.

They get fewer deaths and grave injuries. The war goes from a constant slaughter to a slower, more frustrating near-stalemate, as humanity and the cabal both refuse to give an inch of held territory to the other.

It takes Sam longer than he’d like to admit to realize they’ve somehow recreated the trench wars, and stumbled into a stable chain of command while doing so.

More than ever he’s thankful to be a medic, meaning he’s called to the front too often to be put in any meaningful leadership roles. It suits him just fine. He’ll take the blood and fire of active combat over politics and strategy any day. And it’s better if Devrim is in charge of that anyway. Light knows it’ll be easier on Mark’s nerves than sending him off to the front line.

**2.**

“Sergeant Fletcher, sir!”

Sam glances up at the soldier who barged into the infirmary tent. He’s still not sure how he feels about the whole ‘addressing him by rank’ thing — or even about the fact that he has an actual military rank now. He blames it on the Future Car cult. But he can’t argue with how much easier it makes it to know when someone’s talking to him. There are only so many _Sgt. Fletcher_ around.

He writes down the last of the meds that need replenishing and gestures to the soldier to speak up.

“There’s-” They stop as if unsure how to proceed before saying carefully, “We’ve got a Fallen wanting to talk to you.”

“A _what_?”

“A Fallen, sir. Captain rank by the size of it.”

Sam rubs his face, grimacing. “And why am I supposed to deal with _that_?”

“Well you’ve got kind of a… reputation? Also it asked for someone in charge and you’re the highest ranked officer present at the moment.”

Light. Save one Dreg (or a few) and you’ll never hear the end of it. It’s not his fault he’s got a soft heart for small, vulnerable bug aliens.

He slings his rifle over his shoulder and follows after the soldier with a faint sigh.

It’s not hard to tell where the Captain is: there’s a crowd gathered around it, some watching it with open hostility and others gossiping in low voices. Sam could hear the chatter long before he reached them. His guide hovers a second at his shoulder once they get there before joining his fellow soldiers.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Sam barks, striding through the crowd and glaring at the lot of them. “You think the Cabal’s gonna wait patiently while you gossip? Get movin’!”

They disperse and soon Sam is left with a handful of Guardians at his back and one lone Fallen looming over him. The looming might be accidental. It’s been years since he’s been that close to a Fallen and he forgot how _tall_ these fuckers get. He crosses his arms and looks up into the four glowing eyes of the alien.

The Fallen takes out its blades, and he tenses, hears guns being aimed down at the alien behind him, but it only crosses them in front of its chest and bows its head slightly.

He shakes his head and pushes the confusion away. As long as it’s not attacking he’s willing to give it a chance. “I’m Samuel Fletcher, I’m in charge of this unit. You wished to talk.”

“I am Mithrax, Kell of Light” it says, sheathing its blades once again. “I come to speak in House-mine name.”

That gives him pause. A Kell alone in hostile territory sounds… impossible. Or stupid, depending. The Fallen have a near-fanatical loyalty to their Kells, they wouldn’t let one go behind enemy lines on its own. The name of its House is odd as well. Most Houses are named by the Guardians fighting them rather than by the Fallen themselves — the House of Wolves by the grey scruff of their cloaks, the House of Devils by the threat they posed to the City. So why the House of _Light_? He doesn’t know what would be the most disturbing, between a Guardian naming them that and the Fallen choosing it themselves.

Maybe it’s a risk, but… he’s curious.

Just as he’s about to invite Mithrax to keep talking someone yells, “Medic!”

His eyes dart away. He sees them as they round the corner, a small fireteam that was sent on recon this morning. They’re carrying one of their own, arms slung around her teammates’ shoulders. A good chunk of her armor is nothing but a charred mess anymore.

Forgetting all about this weird Fallen Sam jogs up to them and catches the wounded before her exhausted companions can drop her. Moments later two soldiers appear at his side, carrying a stretcher.

“Get her to the med tent! You two, can you get there on your own or do you need help?” The two other Guardians shake their heads. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He nods at Mithrax on their way past it — him? Female Fallen sound a little different from what he remembers. He means it as an apology since he can’t listen to what the Kell has to say, but Mithrax takes one look at the situation and follows after them. Sam shrugs and waves off the concerned soldiers that try to stop him. He’ll deal with that later, once he’s done doing his job.

The Guardian — Nel, apparently — has a third degree burn covering her chest from her shoulder to her navel from a close encounter with a Magma Launcher. There’s not much Sam can do about it except clean the wound and bandage it while they wait for extraction. They’ll need to get her to the back line before flying her to the Farm, where they’ll have the necessary equipment for a skin graft.

The other two are mostly fine. One of them is an Exo, so Sam sends him to the camp’s engineer despite his protests. He doesn’t understand anything about the way Exos work, but even he knows that a loose wire can sometimes be the difference between hitting your target and getting hit instead. Better safe than sorry.

“I’ll keep an eye on Nel,” the other reassures him, and he reluctantly steps out of the tent.

Finally, once everyone is bandaged and resting, he turns his attention back to Mithrax.

The Kell has been watching him work patiently, staying well out of his way. Whatever it is he wants to talk about, it must be important if he’s willing to spend so much time staring at Sam's back while he cuts dead skin off a poor girl like she’s some kind of human kebab.

(Yikes.)

He takes off his gloves, balls them and throws them in the trash, washes his hands carefully. Then, while he’s cleaning and disinfecting his tools, he angles his face so he can look at Mithrax over his shoulder and says,

“Alright. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“The Great Machine. It left you, yes?” Sam nods, bemused. “It runs when you need it most. We see this. Some want to attack while you’re weak. Revenge for theft. Others say you are not thieves. You are like Eliksni, chosen by Great Machine then abandoned. Want to help like we wanted to be helped.”

Sam carefully, neatly cleans and packs his surgery tools away, mind whirring with this new information. “Which one won out?”

“None. House of Houses splintered. Old loyalties hard to forget, many new-old Houses now. Again. Some want to fight. Some want to help.” Mithrax makes an odd little sound. Sam finds him playing with the last of his scalpels, staring at the slowly drying blood there. He presents it to Sam, handle first, and holds his gaze with four glowing eyes. “ _I_ want to help. We fight together, yes? Then we find the Great Machine again.”

Sam isn’t sure how he feels about running after the Traveler like a… a jilted loved, like something desperate and broken begging to be given another chance. Maybe he’s biased because he’s been living without the Light for so long, or maybe he’s too proud for it.

But in the meantime, Mithrax is offering something far more precious. An alliance isn’t a small thing for the Fallen, who fights other Houses as often as the many factions they’re at war with. It’s near friendship, chaining your survival to that of another House, compromising on your goals to better fight together.

It means a lot. Sam can appreciate that. So he takes the scalpel and holds Mihtrax’s gaze and says, “Alright. I’ll get you to the Vanguard.”

They can talk, leaders to leaders. Kell to Kell. And Sam can stay here, in his infirmary with the quickly dwindling medical supplies and nothing but spite to carry him through, and prepare to welcome wounded Fallen into his care. Just the way he likes it.

**3.**

Sam isn’t sure how the talks between the House of Light and the Vanguard went. A few days after he brought Mithrax to them the Legion stages an offensive on their front, and there’s no more time to worry about the negotiations. He’s too busy trying to keep his troops alive.

It’s the worst week of his life. The Cabal are relentless because they can afford to be. They outnumber and outgun them, and they have nothing to protect. Every attack becomes a gamble — how much time before the first line falls, how much ground can they give before they’re backed in a corner or putting civilians in danger. Ships can’t approach the zone without being gunned down, the transmat system is down, and the nearest outpost is days away on a Sparrow.

They’re all alone, quickly running out of ammo, and soon they’ll be running out of _people_.

Sam alternates between the front line and their ever-moving camp, gunning down Cabal and stabilizing the wounded. Most of the soldiers at his side are bearing some kind of injury and fighting despite it. Light knows the one he’s currently dragging to safety will be back in the fray as soon as they can stand on their two feet.

He gets them behind a crumbling wall and leans against the stone for a second, panting. There’s no time for a break. He rummages in his bag and takes out bandages, stitches, the bottle of vodka they’ve been using since they ran out of disinfectant. It’s not a deep wound but an infection is a death sentence when they have nothing to treat it and no way to tell when they’ll be able to get supplies again.

The air rumbles over their heads. Since his hand are otherwise occupied and he can’t risk looking away and fucking up a stitch Sam presses his cheek against the radio taped to his shoulder.

“Hellion, come in, what’s going on?”

The radio crackles with static and gunfire. Hellion-6 yells _cover me_ , half muffled by the noise, before her tense voice comes clearer through the comms. “Fallen Skiff just uncloaked above us.”

Fuck. This could be a saving grace or the last nail in their coffin. He ties the final stitch, shushing the Guardian distractedly when she makes a small pained noise, and finally looks up. He squints at the flag flying above the Skiff. It’s red, he thinks, but that could be Light colors just as much as Devil and he can’t make out the symbols.

Well. Pray for the best and prepare for the worst, right? Not that he’ll need much preparation. Death by Cabal or death by Devil isn’t that different, after all.

The Skiff opens its hatches and drops Fallen troops over their lines. Dregs and Vandals scatter, getting behind cover as soon as they touch the ground. Sam ducks his head so he’s less visible and risks a glance to one of the Fallen.

Red banners and a familiar symbol. Thank the Light, they’re allies.

“Don’t shoot!” He barks in his comms. “They’re friendly!”

“Are you _sure?_ ”

The last Fallen to drop from the Skiff before it disappears again is a Captain — no, not quite. Sam grins at Mithrax even though Kell can’t see it. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. Let them through.”

He leaves the wounded Guardian to the watch of their fretting Ghost and joins the fighting again. He checks his rifle as he approaches and scowls when he finds the magazine empty. He still has his bow, but it’s far from ideal in this situation, even with Fallen support helping thin the herd.

Just as he’s about to take out his other weapon though, the Vandal closest to him steps out of his way and hands him their Shock Rifle, bowing their head quickly before skittering away. Sam watches them go, confused, before eventually shrugging it off and taking aim.

The balance of the rifle is different from what he’s used to, heavier and bulkier than his own, but he gets used to it quickly enough. The fact that the projectiles track the Cabal he has in his sights is definitely a nice perk. More than that though it’s the satisfaction of seeing every shot followed by a dozen more — he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Guardians, but a few yards down the line there are Fallen too, and it’s the strangest and most wonderful thing that’s happened to him yet.

Survival. What a concept.

Finally the Legion retreats after the loss of one Centurion too many. There’s a moment of tense silence as they watch their enemies retreat for the first time in days, waiting with baited breath for the Cabal to yell it was just a joke and descend upon them once again to grind them in the dust.

It doesn’t happen. When they realize that, the exhausted, mud-stained soldiers break into cheers. Sam finds himself dragged into a hug by Viratz, the rookie non-Guardian of the squad, and rubs his back when he feels tears well up against his skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, we made it, we won,” he whispers, squeezing a little tighter. “We’re safe now.”

It’s a lie but one Viratz needs at the moment.

Eventually the kid lets go and Sam pushes him towards the other soldiers. Some have collapsed where they stood, groaning in relief and fatigue, but most are jumping and hugging like they won the war rather than a single battle.

No one died, this time. Guess it’s justified.

“Good we were in time.”

Sam jumps. He puts a hand to his chest as if trying to manually slow down his hammering heart and whirls around to glower at Mithrax. He’s lucky Sam is tired, otherwise he might have gotten a face full of arc projectiles rather than a sullen glare.

(His fight or flight response tends to fall squarely in the _fight_ category.)

“Don’t just _sneak_ up on me like that,” he says. Then it occurs to him that not only is this the leader of a whole House, which entails a little bit of respect unless he wishes for an Arc Blade between the ribs, but also that Mithrax might have just saved their lives and he ought to be grateful. “Thank you,” he adds. “You have no idea how much it meant to us.”

Mithrax makes a show of looking around, at the discarded, empty guns and the drawn faces of his unit. “Have some idea.”

“Ha, yeah, that’s fair. Still. Thank you.”

“You need help. We promised. So, we’re here. No thanks needed.”

Well. He’s not gonna argue against that. He changes the subject, if only because if he stops talking he’s going to drop unconscious and he needs to stay awake to check everyone for injuries.

“Can I keep the rifle? It’s _very_ nice.”

“I know. Eliksni make best weapons. Keep it and it will keep you alive.”

Nice of him.

“Sarge?”

The calm never lasts, huh? Sam turns towards the soldier calling for him. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We got the wounded to the tent. Some of the guys are already patching them up, but-” They glance nervously at Mithrax before continuing. “One of them is a Fallen, and I don’t think we’re qualified to take care of _that_.”

“I see. Mithrax, would you mind giving us a hand? Or, huh, a few?”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke but Mithrax makes a clicking sound that sounds a bit like laughter, maybe, and follows after them.

The Fallen in question is a Dreg, curled on a cot and clutching their — oh dear, what little is left of their left arm. Sam clicks his tongue, puts his gloves on and leans over them, gently prying their claws away from the wound. They hiss weakly put let him do it.

It’s been cauterized. Gladiator blade, probably, the look of the cut. It kind of breaks his heart to see: he definitely has a soft spot for small, insect-like things.

“Aw you poor thing,” he mutters while inspecting the edges of the wounds. “Say, Mithrax, do you know if your kind has bad reactions to human medicine?”

The Kell makes a negative noise. Reassured, Sam starts by disinfecting the burn, wincing when it elicits pained chattering noises from the Dreg. He tries to make small talks to distract them, even though he has no idea if they also speak Terran. “It’s going to suck having only one arm when you ought to have four, hm? Don’t you worry, we’ll find you something cool to replace it. Like a hook. Or an Arc Blade on a stick, heh? Gives you some more reach to fight those Cabal bastards.”

All the while he can feel the weight of Mithrax’ attention on him. He ignores it — he’s a professional, he has a _job_ to do.

“Few supplies,” Mithrax muses.

Sam waves it off. “Yes, yes. We’ve been off grid for some times and the City engineers couldn’t come to fix our transmat system with all the Cabal around. Don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe not waste it on Dreg. Keep it for kin.”

This time he turns to look at Mithrax, indignant that he would suggest such a thing. He’s a doctor, damn it, he’s not going to let one of their new allies die from the consequences of an impromptu amputation. “I’m not going to hoard my supplies and let one of yours _die_ , Mithrax!”

The Kell shrugs. “Is only Dreg.”

Anger flares inside, burning hot in his chest. He tightens his grip involuntarily and has to apologize when the Dreg makes another noise of pain. He goes back to his task, focusing on the bandages he’s carefully wrapping around the stump. He tries to keep the tension out of his voice when he speaks.

“It’s not my place to judge the value of a life. I take care of the wounded, no matter who they are, and that’s it. I’ll leave the decisions to you leaders.” He can’t stop himself from adding, “And this little guy right there probably helped save my life and that of my squad. The least I can do is make sure they don’t keel over and die because of it.”

He lets go of the Dreg and sighs. Rising to his feet, he tears of the gloves and throws them at the nearest trash can. He should look over his squad, make sure everyone got the medical attention they needed, but it feels wrong to leave the crippled Fallen as is. Not like there’s anything more he could do for them.

Mithrax stops him before he can leave with a hand hovering near his arm, careful not to touch. He reaches under his cloak and takes out a small canister. It glows a faint purplish-blue at the edges and Sam draws back when he realizes what it is. Ether: the life force of the Fallen. It’s not a commodity that is freely given away, yet Mithrax presses it in his hand and nods decisively.

“Give this. Makes healing quicker. Numbs pain. Kell-strong dose, give slowly.”

“I…” _Can’t accept this_ , he meant to say, but this isn’t just a gift. It’s a medical necessity. He’s endlessly grateful for it. “Thank you. I know you are in short supply as well.”

Mithrax shrugs. “I am Kell. Always have as much Ether as I need. And if we lack, Alliance still stands, Guardians help. Find more resources, make more. Small sacrifice. If it helps you, worth it.”

Sam covers his smile by bending over the Dreg to fit the canister into their breathing apparatus. They’ll take it off in a few minutes, take it slow as Mithrax advised.

**4.**

The Fallen unit leaves once their transmat zone has been repaired and their supplies replenished. Mithrax tells them he will send them reinforcement later, once they have hashed out troop deployment and, apparently, gone through alliance negotiation with other Houses who either sympathize with humanity’s fate or are interested in the protection from other Houses a large alliance offers.

It takes a month, but they do have a small Fallen troop joining them in their outpost. They’re not sure how it will work yet — some of the soldiers are still uneasy with living near Fallen but they’ll have to suck it up — but Sam is eager to see how it goes, if only because their presence might mean fewer casualties.

The first to approach the humans is a small Vandal holding a large bag. Their lower two arms seem to still be regrowing from being docked, so it must be a recent promotion. They hand the bag to Sam, who opens it to find it filled with Ether canisters. His eyes jerk up in shock. The Vandal shrugs, and through the gaps in its armor Sam glimpses the edge of a burn wound around its upper left arm, already healed.

“Kell says for you,” they say, Fallen accent heavy and awkward on the unfamiliar sounds of Terran speech. “For healing Eliksni. Your Ether. Your choice.”

From what he knows of Fallen culture, the higher ranked members of a House are the ones to choose who the Ether supply goes to — Kell and Archons. He’s not sure what it means that Mithrax would grant him the same power. But he looks at the newly minted Vandal, and decides to take it at face value. It’s a gift and a show of trust. An offer of friendship, the Fallen way.

He slings the bag over his shoulder and gestures at the Vandal. “What’s your name?”

They duck their head, clicking softly as they try to understand his words. Finally, they say, “Setres.”

“ _Setres._ Alright. I’m gonna drop this in my tent, and then you’re going to be my interpreter while I show you where you can set camp, okay?”

It looks faintly panicked at the prospect, or maybe at the many words it doesn’t understand, and Sam can’t help a smile as it nods hesitantly.

They’re going to make it through this. All of them, one day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> how the fuck do fallen speaking human work even
> 
> in this, Common Terran is how i’m calling the universal language humanity has got going on. It has its roots in the golden age, where the traveler’s influence led to the creation of a single language to facilitate global exchanges. It grew in the Dark Age as humanity came together to build the City and many different cultures were brought together.
> 
> Reef Terran is a little different from it, kind of like the Portuguese or Spanish spoken in Europe vs Latin America. It’s basically space Quebecois, and mostly spoken among the Awoken. It’s a miracle that it’s still understandable tbh after all the time they spent isolated in their pocket dimension. Reef Terran is also spoken by the Fallen allied or with regular contact with the Awoken, meaning the language has borrowed quite a few words from their vocabulary as time passed.
> 
> i’m taking better ideas for the name tho ‘terran’ is the only idea I had and tbh I think it sounds a little boring
> 
> come haunt me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/2Fast2Kangoo) or [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/)


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